


Staking A Claim

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, BAMF Steve Rogers, Choose Your Own Ending, Clothing Kink, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Female Steve Rogers, Female Tony Stark, Femslash, Genderswap, Grinding, Mention of sexual abusers, Restraints, Smoking, Villain Tony Stark, ambiguous setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: When Sarah Gwen Rogers meets Natasha Stark, Tasha says, "My dad used to rave about you. That marvelous Captain America and how amazing she was, how good... It's too bad his little girl didn't follow in her footsteps."But as it turns out, there's rather a lot Howard Stark didn't know about Gwen.





	1. Staking A Claim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeioRossi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeioRossi/gifts).



> OKAY! So this was... terrifying to write. I'm not sure I've ever written femslash before! I liked it, though, and I'd do it again, so Leio_Rossi, THANK YOU for this prompt!
> 
> First things first: When you read fic, do you read chapter by chapter, or all in one? Because for this fic, you want to read chapter by chapter. This fic has a CHOOSE YOUR OWN ENDING, because I looked at the idea of a completely evil Tony and *wibbled*. So the first chapter is most of the fic; the second chapter is the ending with the evillest Tony I could manage; and then the third chapter has my happy hopeful ending that I needed for me. :) Hopefully, you enjoy both! 
> 
> Next: The universe this is set in is... well, I did MCU, but you could go a number of different ways with it. I'm pretty sure this would play okay as a 3490 AU too--or even Ults, except Tasha has the arc reactor.
> 
> And last: My concept of Gwen (if canon gives us Natasha as a feminine for Tony, I can do Gwen as a feminine for Steve) was that, in order to get to the same place Steve does as a woman, she has to be a little more cautious than typical canon Steve. So she does a lot of watching and waiting in this fic. It does not, actually, make her any less of a badass.

When she came out of the ice, SHIELD had all sorts of people they wanted her to meet.  

Here was how it went:

They would tell her that there was a meeting scheduled; she would put on one of the horrible, ultra-fashionable dresses they had given her—ultra-fashionable for her time, that was, which probably meant they were all hideous now—and wait for them at her door.  One of the junior secretaries—usually these were men, and if they were women, they were never in a dress like her own—would escort her to one of the three thousand meeting rooms apparently located in this complex.  She would spend the entire meeting, usually fifteen minutes to an hour long, doing what amounted to nothing more than glad-handing, and then, just before the boredom became too _very_ much to bear, she would be escorted back to her room.  

Her room was full of books and old records, the walls beige, the furniture too soft.  She had requested a sketchbook three times, but had yet to receive one.

The day she met Tasha Stark, there was nothing different from the usual pattern to raise her suspicions: notice that she had a meeting came a tad later than usual, but, as the breathless aide assured her on the way down the hallway, “Miss Stark is a very busy woman; we don't ever get much notice of meetings with her, no one does.”

Gwen thought that was rather rude.  

Her dress that day was a lovely A-line thing.  It clung close through her torso to the top of her hips and then flared magnificently.  The bodice was strapped, with a sweetheart neckline that Gwen both loved and hated at the same time.  The color was bronze, but the lower hem had an ivory flower splashed across it.  It was _darling_.  The agent escorting her, Agent Bowers, was wearing long blue pants and a mandarin-collared jacket in matching hue, both fitted closely, the trousers widened at the bottom to fit over a pair of boots, or a side-piece.  She looked efficient, utilitarian, and comfortable.

It wasn’t like Gwen couldn’t spot the difference.  She looked down at her adorable bronze dress and huffed to herself, annoyed at having to be annoyed at anything so cute.  At first, she hadn’t said anything because SHIELD seemed to have some sort of plan in mind for her reintroduction to society.  But at some point along the way, the plan seemed to have gone sideways: Gwen recognized a holding pattern when she saw it.  Now, she was mostly just spooling out enough rope for them to hang themselves on.

When they reached the meeting room, Miss Stark was not there.  Agent Coulson was, and Gwen held back a groan.  She actually liked Agent Coulson, but he did tend to stifle one a bit.  He gave his customary, cosseting smile, and began to explain the same thing Gwen had seen in her acclimatization reading, that Miss Stark was the heir to Stark Industries, and the head of engineering there, and she had been helping them track down that rogue villain Iron Man—

“After all,” a smooth, mocking voice said from the doorway, “he has cost my company an awful lot of money.”

“Yes,” Gwen said, turning around as she spoke, “especially when he cost you a bunch of off-the-books arms deals with the Ten Rings.  Care to comment, Miss Stark?”

And then she got her first good look.  

Miss Stark was tall for a woman but shorter than Gwen.  (Most people were shorter than Gwen.)  She wore her dark hair short and combed away from her face, although one thick lock was trying to straggle into her eyes. Her makeup was both minimal and expert. Her suit—three-piece with boot-cut trousers, charcoal colored and pin-striped with lilac, with a mauve blouse, matching waistcoat, and tie beneath—was cut on long and lean lines, a masculine sort of style even compared to what Gwen had seen of modern dress.  She wore it shockingly well; she gave the impression, instant and strong, that this form was the only possible form she could ever have, the only version of herself to exist in the entire multiverse.  Gwen knew for a fact that this was a lie—she had seen pictures in her briefing packets—and she _still_ found herself unable to conceive of any other presentation for this woman, who was, by all accounts, so much more powerful than Gwen herself was.  

As Gwen turned, Miss Stark reacted with subtle, but real, appreciation: her eyes dipped, tracing up Gwen’s bare, shaved, and seamed legs, over the curves of her hips, and waist, and higher, before meeting Gwen's eye.  Gwen sucked in a gasp at her expression; it wasn't the hunger that shocked her so much—folks had been eyeing Gwen up like a juicy steak since Rebirth, that was nothing new—but the _curiosity...!_

Gwen tried to think of who the last person to look at her with so much curiosity had been...

Oh.

Apparently, Stark really _was_ her father's daughter.  

After a second of regard, the sharp brown gaze became slightly sardonic, but the curiosity and greed remained.  “My dad used to rave about you, you know,” Stark said, her voice pitched lightly, glibly, but with an undertone that hovered on the edge of cruel.  “That marvelous Captain America! How amazing she was, how good!  Guess it's too bad his little girl couldn't follow in her footsteps."

Gwen swallowed back her first response and clenched her hands into fists, hidden within the voluminous folds of her skirt.  At least the damned thing was good for _something._ “There’s a lot your dad didn’t know about me,” she said evenly.  

“I know he put a lot of effort into finding out.”

Stark practically snarled the phrase, and Gwen found herself on the back foot, her head rearing back defensively.  “Not that I noticed,” she snapped back.  “He never spent a lot of time on _anything;_ a scattered brain.  Never focused, but so brilliant that it never mattered.”  She paused, remembering.  “I wasn’t an area of any particular interest, not beyond what he had for any of the rest of his projects.”

Something hard and possessive flared briefly in Stark’s eyes before closing off completely, and Stark suddenly became much more polite, if more distant.  Still, within minutes, she was talking circles around Coulson, and when Fury arrived—as reinforcements, Gwen suspected—she talked circles around him, too, until she had arranged for Gwen to accompany her to some party the next night—a charity benefit, Gwen thought.

It struck her as odd that Stark could talk circles around Fury, though.  He was usually cannier than that.

“You should buy me a dress,” Gwen said specifically to Stark just as the negotiations were concluding—largely without her input, but then, she had been biding her time.  

“What was that?”

“A dress,” Gwen repeated.  She smiled, the winsome, superficial, glass-and-champagne smile she learned with the USO.  “It sounds like a very fancy party, Miss Stark; surely you don’t want me showing up in something SHIELD picked out.”

The possessiveness, which had been banked in Stark’s eyes, flared hard.  So did that thin edge of cruelty.  Stark swallowed and nodded.  “Show up three hours early,” she ordered.  “I want to make sure the tailoring is correct.”

 

* * *

 

This dress was _not_ another flared a-line number.  In fact, it was barely anything at all.  

It at least started with a moderately demure Queen Anne neckline, decorative gold embroidery standing out against the indigo-colored velvet, but it ended with a tight skirt only a couple inches below Gwen’s crotch.  At first when Gwen held the thing up against herself, she thought that was a sizing error, but then Stark had looked up, meeting Gwen’s eyes and quirking one brow in a dare.

Gwen smiled serenely, took the dare, and said nothing.  

When she actually tried the damned thing on, though, Stark took one look and immediately shook her head in disgust.  “What are you _wearing?_ No, no, this won’t do at all.”

Gwen raised a brow.  “You picked it,” she pointed out.

“Yeah?  Well, I sure as hell didn’t pick that _bra._ I think you could put an eye out with those things, Jesus—”  

Gwen hummed thoughtfully.  “I do like pointy things,” she mused.

She thought Stark wouldn’t be able to hear it, or wouldn’t pick up on it, but in fact Stark froze, a deviant grin spreading over her face.  “Do you?” she asked.  “And here I thought you like things round.  Given the shield, and all.”

But she was not, actually, talking about the shield.

“Round is good, too,” Gwen agreed with smile.  “I should probably mention here that I like things which are hard, too—as well as soft.  While we’re talking preferences.”

“Good to know—then I won’t feel too guilty about this lace.”  She picked out a bra, stepping into Gwen’s space to hold it up against Gwen’s chest.  “Should work,” she observed.  “Here, put it on.”

She dropped the bra—Gwen automatically caught it, so a point there to Stark—and then leaned back against the door of the changing room, making no move to leave.  

One of these days, Gwen thought as she raised her arm for the zip, she was really going to have to learn how to back down from a challenge.  

She met Stark’s eyes as she unzipped the dress, letting it slip down to her waist where it stuck—quite predictably, given how tight it was.  She didn’t break eye contact as she changed into the bra, either, and she got to see the exact moment when Stark’s eyes dropped to her chest, darkening hungrily.  Gwen couldn’t blame her, really; she did have a _fantastic_ chest.

Still, though: that was a yes.  

She pulled the dress back up around her shoulders, zipped it under her arm again, and then smoothed it down her hips, all without cutting her gaze, although she could feel the flush staining her cheeks.  “What else?” she asked.

Stark grinned sharply and started talking about makeup.  It took Gwen about three second to figure out it was going to wind up looking very different from how she had ever styled it before.  The look was nowhere near as subtle as Stark’s makeup, with false eyelashes and glittering scarlet lipstick, tip-tilted eye shadow and hollow cheeks.  It dawned on Gwen as she stared at the—it had to be said— _bimbo_ in the mirror that she wasn’t going to this event with Stark as her _companion;_ she was going tonight as Stark’s _date._

She met Stark’s eyes in the mirror, and batted the falsies at her.  “Thank you so much,” she said, putting a heaping helping of coo into it.  “This is just what I had hoped for.”  

Stark’s eyes narrowed.  She leaned forward over Gwen’s shoulder, speaking directly into her ear.  “Is it?  Interesting.”

Gwen turned her head, staring into Stark’s eyes from mere inches away.  “SHIELD continues to think I want to be the only person in the world still living like it’s 1945—and I don’t understand _why.”_ She let her eyes flick down to Stark’s mouth before bringing them back up again.  “It sounds _awfully_ lonely, doesn’t it?”

She smiled at Stark again, because she was free from SHIELD for one night in a dress she was certain they had not signed off on, with a dangerous woman Gwen was certain they didn’t entirely approve of.  And because she thought Stark might find the sheer warmth of her smile either confusing, or confounding, or both.  

Gwen rather liked confusing beautiful women.  She always had.  

She thought Howard Stark must not have mentioned that bit.

Stark’s eyes went half-lidded and she leaned forward, a mere half inch of movement, before _jerking_ herself backwards.  “Right,” she said, running her hands down her hips and turning away sharply.  “Right.  Let’s get Cole in here to do your hair, shall we?  I don’t do hair, you might have noticed—”

Cole, the hair stylist, proved to be a slim young man with about fifteen colors and as many piercings on his own head.  He spoke with a lisp of people and events Gwen knew nothing about, but when she asked questions he proved happy to fill her in on the background.  She mostly kept quiet and let him talk as he worked; it was interesting.  

Stark did not return until Gwen’s hair was completely styled, and when she did she had obviously gotten dressed for the evening in the meantime.  She was now in a tux—still, despite the years and changes to fashion, a masculine choice, although surely more acceptable now than it would have been in Gwen’s time.  It  was another long-and-lean type of suit, but this time in black; Stark wore it without a tie, and her collar sat confidently over the lapels.  It was beautifully fitted.  

Her shoes were very pointy, and at least four inches tall.  At _least._

“I could never do that,” Gwen observed.  “Got a smoke?”

“Sorry?  No, I don’t—do _what?”_

“Heels,” Gwen said, nodding to the place in the mirror where Tasha’s pointy, red-bottomed shoes reflected.  Then she looked a question at Cole, instead, and a second later accepted the offered cigarette with a grateful smile.  She tucked it into her mouth and then spoke around it, “I never could get the hang of those, not when I was—smaller—and not now.”  Not to mention, the heels had never been quite so... _precarious,_ back in her youth.  

She breathed in as Cole lit the cig for her, then took it out, breathed out a stream of smoke, and sat back on the vanity pouf.  

Natasha Stark met her eyes in the mirror and then nodded with wide-eyed seriousness.  “No one’s going to know who you are,” she warned Gwen.

Gwen nodded.  “I should hope not,” she said.  “If they do, SHIELD has a serious security breach.”

“They’re going to try to guess.”  

“Naturally.”  Gwen coolly puffed once more.  God, cigarettes tasted disgusting these days; she wasn’t sure what had been done to them, but whatever it was, she didn’t approve.

“Sooner or later, they’re going to claim you’re a prostitute.”  

“More sooner than not, considering this skirt,” she said dryly before standing and stepping into her own—much more modest—shoes.  “More modest” in the sense that they were platform heels; while they appeared to be just as sky high as Stark’s, the actual arch of them was only about one and a half inches.  Given the gems on them, however, she suspected “modest” might not be the right word; the bands around her ankles had more sapphires and diamonds in gold settings than they did leather, and all together the shoes were as heavy and unwieldy as some manacles Gwen had worn.

She stubbed out her cigarette with half its length still to go, then shook her hair—tucked up into a loose and lazy updo—to settle it and gestured towards the door.  The dress curved in tightly under her rear; she could feel it pressing into the upper backs of her thighs, but it was so short that she could in fact still move in it, if she needed to.  She took comfort in that.  “Shall we?”

In the limousine, Stark presented her with one more thing: a small chest full of jewelry.  Earrings, bracelets, a necklace...  All were heavy, full of more sapphires and diamonds and gold, and Miss Stark urged Gwen to put them all on in the car, even taking off the plain gold studs she had been wearing.  “Staking a claim?” Gwen asked, meeting Stark’s eyes boldly.

Stark smirked.  “You have no idea.  Drink?”  

The car apparently came with a minibar.

 

* * *

 

Stark put her hand on Gwen’s waist as they exited the car.  “One more thing,” she said when it was just barely too late for Gwen to respond.  “Call me Tasha.”

 

* * *

 

The party was drivel, unfortunately.  There was more glad-handing, just like Gwen had done in all her “meetings,” but this time paired with mediocre wine and out of season strawberries.  Gwen kept a smile on her face and batted her eyes a lot; after a few minutes, Stark—Tasha, she supposed she should call her now—seemed to get the joke, because the hard light in her eyes got twinkly-er, and she started introducing Gwen to men who, it had to be said, _very obviously_ deserved anything Gwen could do to them.

Gwen was happy to oblige.  She hadn’t had this much fun since Dernier had taught her how to turn flour sacks into explosives last year—or seven decades ago, she supposed, depending on your perspective.  

She sent Mr. Hefner off to get her a drink, then turned and vanished before he could come back; she did the same for Mr. Spacey, except that for him she waited to receive the drink, then took one sip and set it on the empty tray of a passing waiter.  (She only fantasized for a second about taking the tray and throwing it around the room, bouncing it off of too-coiffured heads.)  Mr. Weinstein talked to her bosoms; she casually crossed her arms beneath them, tensing her biceps to make it look as if the bosoms were talking back.  When Mr. Wayne smothered a chortle at the sight, she winked and wrote Agent Bowers’ phone number on his arm in lip liner.

That brought Tasha back to her side, jokingly (not jokingly) scolding her about running around on their first date.  “Well, given how _charming_ everyone is, how could I not?” Gwen asked, putting enough spin on the word _charming_ to make her opinion known, smiling widely and too brightly.  “Gosh, do you think I could have some more champagne, Tasha?  It’s so bubbly.”

“You are a _menace,”_ Tasha gritted, rictus grin on her wine-painted lips as she did, in fact, pass Gwen another glass.

“You should talk.”  Gwen made her voice flirty and intimate as the insubstantial underwear she had been given, but the real snark in her tone was not lost on Tasha, who huffed as Gwen deliberately chugged the champagne.  (A horrible thing to do to good champagne, but worth it for the look on Tasha’s face.  And this was not _good_ champagne, anyway.)  “Ugh,” she said, casually tossing the glass in the air so that it sparkled in the light, rainbows flashing as it turned end over end before landing perfectly on a very startled waitress’s tray.  “How long until we’re done with this thing?”

Tasha blinked at the intact, upright flute for a second.  “Not long now,” she said, distracted.  Her hand raised to flutter next to her ear, pressing on the conch for a second the same way the techs at SHIELD did before moving on smoothly, rubbing her dangling garnet earrings as if that had been the whole point of the movement.  

Less than a minute later, the Iron Man armor burst through the wall.

The effect was instantaneous: the crowd screamed and scattered, running probably for the exits but mostly into each other.  The press of bodies became intense, and Gwen started a mental timer.  She would give it no more than a minute before breaking cover and taking charge; there was no excuse for allowing even _this_ crowd to stampede themselves to death.

At seven seconds, though, the Iron Man armor focused on her and Tasha.  “STAAAAARRRRK,”  the computerized voice of it droned.  Gwen shivered; it truly did sound like a monster out of some cinema film.  Well done on the designer’s part, she supposed; just on the edge of over-the-top.  “BRING.  ME.  STARK.”

Maybe _over_ the edge of over-the-top.

But there wasn’t time to be snide; the mechanical menace spotted her and Tasha, its eyes flashing in satisfaction.  It brought its arms up and fired on the crowd, throwing people across the floor and out of its way—although, rather more gently than Gwen would have expected a “known terrorist suspect” to do.  

Within seconds, it had crossed the once-crowded room, coming to a stop in front of her.  Tasha cowered behind her, putting Gwen’s greater height and mass between her and the Iron Man.  Futilely, Gwen raised a tray snagged from the hand of a fleeing waiter, but it did no good: Tasha dove out of the way as the Iron Man fired again, much harder this time.  The tray was ripped out of her hands like cardboard and Gwen heard a ringing sound as her head smacked, hard, against the floor.  Her body spasmed as she was buffeted by a second stunning blow from the Iron Man, this one hitting while she was down, deflected by nothing.  Stars danced in front of her eyes, and a single, high-pitched note sang in her ears.  

It had been only thirty-four seconds since the armor burst into the room.

“Gwen!”  Tasha had been behind her, hadn’t she?  No, she had moved out of the way—where had she gone?  Oh, she was leaning over Gwen, checking her pulse as the last of the muckety-mucks cleared out of the room...  “Oh, Gwen, are you okay?”

Gwen groaned, closing her eyes.  It hurt to move, and she let herself sag, falling against the floor as if unconscious because it was marginally less painful to lie that way.  

“Gwen?  Gwen, answer me if you’re awake!”

Answer.  Right.  She needed to do that.

Well.  Did she _really_ need to?  

In a moment.

Tasha’s fingers were warm—too warm, really—against her throat, checking her pulse and brushing against the over-heavy necklace she had been decked out in.  Gwen felt her pulse beating against those fingers, one, two, heavier than it should be.  Five, six.  She really needed to get up and fight the armor.

Where _was_ the armor, anyway?

And then she heard it: a chuckle, warm and devious as chocolate but sending a chill along Gwen’s spine.  

“Out just like that, hm?”  Tasha’s voice sounded different.  Darker, more confident.  Less girly.  

Still Tasha’s, though.

“Well, well, well.  I have to admit, I am a little disappointed in you, Miss Rogers.”

Did she think Gwen was unconscious?  Seriously?  Gwen could get up.  She could.  Would, in just a moment, really—

And then Gwen’s arms _were_ moving, and so were her head, and her legs, all pulled backwards and up without Gwen’s input by the manacle-like shoes and jewelry she was covered in.  Her abused and aching muscles screamed at her.  

The pain was—it was pain.  Gwen had had worse, but it wasn’t fun, and she struggled to keep her eyes closed, her breathing steady.  

But soon it didn’t matter, anyway: the armor opened like a mussel shell and Tasha stepped into it.  It rocketed out the hole in the side of the building and up into the sky, Gwen still clasped in its arms.  Somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand feet above the ground, the armor changed course, and between the cold and the gravity and the lack of oxygen, Gwen’s head swam right away.

 

* * *

 

Gwen woke in the dark, chained to a metal frame that hung, suspended, from the ceiling, in the middle of a mid-sized, otherwise-empty room.  Well, not entirely empty: there was what looked like a cherrywood chifferobe just at the edge of her vision to the right when she turned her head as far as it would go, and a glimpse of something bed-height on the left suggested that it might be a bedroom of some sort.  But it was a bit too large to be a guest bedroom anywhere, and the phrase that came to mind was _long term observation chamber._  

Gwen shivered, not entirely because of the chill in the air.  She looked more closely at her wrists, where the metal frame held her.  Her arms weren’t over her head, but rather off to each side like the Vitruvian man.  Good; Gwen had proven that she could recover from loss of circulation, but the pins and needles was like getting eaten alive by fire ants.  Best to avoid it.  

The cuffs, she discovered, were large ones, almost an inch thick and most of a foot long.  Even her fingers were pinned, spread out with bars of metal between them.  She was still wearing Stark’s jewelry, and she snorted aloud to herself at the sight.  

Her feet were pinned similarly to her hands, spread wide enough that she would have a difficult time getting leverage to break any bonds, and with just enough support under her that she could stand for some time, but not quite enough support that she could brace.  If she tried to put pressure on the frame with her arms, she realized, it would break and drop her, so that all her weight was on her ankles, instead; best not to do that, then.  The frame itself locked around her abdomen, a two-inch metal loop, and her neck, through some mechanism she couldn’t see, was restrained as well, so that she couldn’t snap her head forward, or even very far to the side.

It was chilly.  The lace bra, which in Gwen’s opinion had been insufficient in the first place, was definitely not enough to keep her nipples from pointing through the dress, and the blue was a pale enough shade that it would be immediately noticeable to anyone who walked in.  She wasn’t wearing any stockings, either, and her legs were breaking out in gooseflesh.  Her lower lip trembled, and she clenched her jaw; it wasn’t cold enough for her teeth to chatter yet, but all her kidnapper had to do was wet her down and then it _would_ be.  

With an incongruously cheerful chirp, a loudspeaker in the corner kicked on.  A cultured male voice, British, tenor, somewhere between the ages of twenty and fifty, greeted her, “Captain Rogers.  Please stay where you are and do not attempt to move.  Your return to consciousness has been reported.  Food is being prepared for you.  An automated server will be with you shortly, and after you, with the other prisoner.  Her condition will be dependent on your good behavior; if you try to escape, she will find that decision... unpleasant.”

Gwen waited, but the voice had fallen silent, and despite giving it time to resume speaking, it stayed that way.

She sighed, subtly trying—failing—to shift in her bonds, and rolled her eyes.  “Come on, Tasha, how dumb do you think I am?!”

Mr. British paused for a full second before clicking back on the speaker.  “I beg your pardon.”

 _“Tasha!”_ Gwen thrashed against her bonds for emphasis.  “I know you run the Iron Man armor!  I have no idea how you do that without being inside it—is it a robot? An accomplice?—but there is _no way_ that thing isn’t yours!”

Mr. British didn’t answer, though, so Gwen subsided into her bonds, the cold, and the emptiness of the room in front of her.

The door opened outward, Gwen discovered, but not in the normal way; it didn’t swing.  Instead, it pulled straight back all at once with a sound like Iron Man punching metal and hiss like a steam engine, then rolled slowly off to the left as if it weighed a couple of tons.  It probably _did,_ actually, at least if Tasha expected it to hold Gwen.  

Tasha slunk inside, looking about as calm as a freshly-bathed cat.  She had changed clothes again, Gwen noticed, and was now in a much more comfortable looking ensemble of denim and a long-sleeved shirt.  Must be nice; Gwen’s too-small dress was threatening to pop up over her bottom altogether, and this room was really too chilly for the lack of coverage.  Tasha’s hair was shoved back, falling out of its carefully-moussed arrangement, and she must have forgotten she was wearing makeup, because her eyeshadow formed dark circles around her eyes that made her look incongruously young.  She glared at Gwen and skulked around the edges of the room, looking indignant.  

She looked like she expected Gwen to say something, but there didn’t seem to be much point to that, so Gwen hung out in her bonds and waited for Tasha to lose patience.  Eventually, Tasha edged her way in front of Gwen and stood, arms crossed, glaring up at her.  When she finally spoke, it was a sulky mutter.  “...How’d you know?”

“It lines up too cleanly with your goals—your _real_ goals, I mean, not that debutante-industrialist bullshit—”

“You don’t even _know—”_  

 _“And besides which,”_ Gwen gritted out at her, “I was still conscious when you picked me up by that ugly jewelry you have decked me out in!”

Tasha groaned and rubbed her hand over her face, seemingly unaware that she was smearing her makeup even more badly than it already had been.  “You know what the problem with this is, right?  The plan _was_ going to be that Jarvis—that’s Jarvis on the speaker; say hello, Jarvis—”

“Hello, Captain Rogers.”  

“—and Jarvis is a _computer program,_ he is not a _person,_ so you couldn’t possibly arrest him once you were out in the real world.   _He_ can’t help what he’s programmed to do.  So the _plan_ was, J was going to handle all of my interactions with you before letting you ‘escape’ after a couple of days, or, worst case scenario, call in an anonymous tip on myself.  No problem, right?  No harm, no foul, just needed you out of the way for a few days.  This seemed like an easy way to get it.

“But now...”  Tasha took a step closer to her; close enough to touch.  “Now, you’ve seen my face, which means that now, I can’t let you go.”

Gwen felt her breath catch in her throat and let it.  She licked her lips, then bit the lower one hard enough to sting before letting it go and licking it again, her tongue lingering on the abused flesh.  “What—”  She coughed, clearing her throat.  Her eyelids were drooping without her consciously deciding to let them, because Tasha had looked fierce and terrible and beautiful in that moment.  “What in the _hell_ makes you think I want you to let me go?”

Tasha froze, eyes going wide.  “What?”

Gwen snorted.  “SHIELD doesn’t appear to have noticed this, but Iron Man isn’t actually all that bad.  I read the reports—did you know they gave me almost unlimited access to reports on you and him?  I think they were trying to prejudice me against you, but it had the opposite effect.  Iron Man—what is he, anyway?  A robot?”

“An amalgam.  Parts of him are a robot, and then the driver—JARVIS runs him sometimes, other times it's me.”

“Yeah, well Iron Man only attacks targets that are involved in illicit deals; he only _kills_ people who are trying to kill or torture others; and the only _exception_ to that rule was a police chief who had, three days before, attended one of those charity functions with you.”  Gwen paused, and watched the knowledge pass over Tasha’s face.  “Exactly.  SHIELD didn’t spot it at the time, because the allegations only came to light months later, but from my perspective?  Pretty obvious, Stark.”

Tasha’s face was gray, her eyes glassy.  She said, “Huh,” and looked like she was about to puke.  

Gwen felt a little bad for her.  “I don't think anyone else has guessed,” she offered.  She shrugged as much as she could, still strung up like a Christmas goose.  “I really did have the advantage of getting it all at once.  Lets me see the larger pattern.”

Tasha looked briefly irritated.  “Yes, and you aren’t known for any special skills in that arena at all, either,” she snapped, then looked even sicker.  

Probably realizing just how badly she had underestimated Gwen.  People did that a lot.

Gwen laughed quietly, letting her gaze move off to the side in embarrassment.  “Well then, from one tactical expert to another?”  She waited until Stark had looked up, waited until there was eye contact and attention and _belief,_  there.  “I think what you really need, here, is an ally.”

And then she broke out of her chains.  Broke all of them, her wrists, her ankles, her throat, peeling herself away from the imprisoning frame limb by limb, her muscles bulging as she exerted her true strength for the first time this century. Tortured metal shrieked as she tore it apart, thudding to the ground in pieces as Gwen stepped down and away from it.  

She moved towards Tasha, who stepped backwards towards the wall.  Tasha’s hands came up in front of her, braced as if she wore Iron Man’s weapons on her palms, although of course she didn’t right now.  

Gwen stepped closer, brushing Tasha’s arms aside, and kissed her.  

She sort of thought Stark might expect her to go slow; to be tentative in the face of a woman’s touch.  No one these days seemed to realize that Gwen had been with a woman before—and frankly, it was far enough from being their business that Gwen had been reluctant to share that fact.  But it meant she didn’t hesitate when she leaned in, that she wasn’t afraid to press close.  She cupped Tasha’s face in both hands and brushed her thumbs along the cheekbones.  

When she pulled back, it was only far enough to let their noses rub together, breathing in deeply and reveling in the moment.  Tasha smelled like expensive perfume and cheap wine, iron and synthetic oil.  Intoxicating.  Delicious.  A terribly tempting bad idea—but then, Gwen had always been good at running with bad ideas.  She leaned in again bit Tasha’s lush lower lip, not hard, but firmly.  It seemed to wake Tasha up, to send her gasping, groping for Gwen’s hips and hauling the two of them in tightly together.  

Gwen growled and set her feet, pushing the two of them forward—or rather, forward from her own perspective; Tasha was stepping backwards, an impressive feat in those shoes, until Gwen put Tasha’s back against the wall next to the open door.  She put one hand in Tasha’s hair, pulling firmly, dropped the other hand to Tasha’s breast, flicking her thumb over the nipple. _Tasha_ didn’t seem to be suffering from scratchy lace; in fact, Gwen quickly discovered, Tasha didn’t seem to be wearing any bra at all, and had small loops of metal threaded through her nipples.  Gwen groaned and pulled out of the kiss, resting her head on Tasha’s shoulder.  “How,” she panted, “how are you this... this....”  

She pulled a hand off of Tasha’s chest to wave it helplessly in the air.  

Tasha laughed, low and confident.  “Baby,” she said, half tender, half _mocking as hell,_ “we’ve barely even gotten started!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHOOSE YOUR OWN ENDING: 
> 
> For the DARK ending, go to Chapter 2  
> For the HAPPY ending, go to Chapter 3
> 
> (or just read the both, I guess; up to you, really!)


	2. DARK ENDING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the DARK ending! If you want the HAPPY ending, skip to chapter 3!

Tasha's clever hands ran up the backs of Gwen’s legs, inserting themselves under the too-tight hem of Gwen’s dress, cupping her rear and then _squeezing,_ kneading until Gwen’s eyes were crossing.  Gwen groaned again and took Tasha’s soft shirt in her hands, rubbing the fabric appreciatively between her fingers before shifting her grip and tearing, ripping the shirt right down the center.

“Jesus fuck!” Tasha yelped, her hands closing suddenly a lot harder on Gwen’s rear.  Gwen dropped her own hands down to Tasha’s ass and lifted, holding Tasha up far enough to get her mouth on one of those too-tempting nipple rings, only to freeze.

There was some kind of a device embedded in Tasha’s chest, pale blue and shimmering.  It emitted light—light that the thick, soft sweatshirt had blocked, and suddenly Gwen found it a lot easier to understand Tasha’s affection for the masculine style of suits—and, when Gwen put her hand on it, she felt the smallest, most microscopic of vibrations.  

“What is it?”  

Gwen wanted to think her voice came out breathy with desire, but when Tasha’s face hardened she knew she had blown it.  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Tasha said harshly.  She pushed lightly at Gwen, getting just a little room, then turned them both around like dancers so that Gwen was standing in the doorway, Tasha on the outside of her.  

Tasha dropped to her knees, pulling Gwen’s skirt up with fast, nimble fingers.  “Let me,” she demanded.  Her voice was still harsh, demanding; a woman accustomed to being obeyed.  “Let me taste you—come on, pull those off—”

Gwen snapped her own panties as easily as she had Tasha’s shirt, and the dress practically sang in relief at being allowed to roll up over the curve of her backside.  She allowed Tasha to position her hands so that she braced on the doorway, permitted her legs to be kicked apart until they hit the edges of the frame so that Tasha could position herself between them, head and shoulders bracing Gwen’s legs apart.  

Tasha used her hands first, and Gwen was going to remember that, remember the feel of being touched delicately, being spread open, examined, _studied._ She was going to _remember_ that, she promised herself, she was—

_“Oh, GOD!”_

Tasha didn’t hesitate once she got the lay of the land; her mouth was as aggressive as the rest of her, sinking down directly over Gwen’s clit and sucking maybe harder than most would like it—but she had read Gwen correctly, and that was _perfect_ for Gwen, she _loved_ that, loved the intensity of it.  Tasha made a low sound of satisfaction at Gwen’s exclamation, and then it was _on,_ her mouth moving steadily, her tongue flickering down, licking along Gwen’s insides and then returning upwards with that delicious, too-much-just-enough suctioning _pressure,_ over and over and _over_ again.  

Gwen let her throat open, cries spilling out of her like wine from a too-full cup.  It was good, it was _exquisite,_ being worked by an obvious expert like Tasha.  Tasha’s hands were in the mix, too, although Gwen was having trouble tracking them; it seemed like they would both be there, and then neither, and then one or the other, and in some dim corner of Gwen’s mind she thought that was strange, but when the person being strange was doing _things like that,_ oh _GOD,_ it was hard to hold onto the thought.  And when they _were_ there, Tasha’s hands were _incredible,_ touching her lightly, too lightly, a tease compared to the tugging, sucking explosion of sensation which was Tasha’s mouth.  

Those hands slipped between Gwen’s folds, brushing lightly against the sensitive skin, teasingly spreading slick along the inner lips which throbbed, aching in response to the delicate touch.  

“Please,” Gwen begged, “Oh, God, Tasha, please—you’re so _good_ at this, but won’t you _please_ give me your— _ahhh!”_

Tasha sunk her fingers inside, all the way, deep, and now the pace wasn’t teasing anymore, it was _building,_ rocketing forward as Tasha curled her hand and put her shoulder into it, _thrusting_ and _thrusting_ in a hard, driving rhythm that was sending Gwen mad.  The noises Gwen was making were totally wordless, now, totally mindless.  She wanted to squeeze her legs together, press herself closer, but it would be rude and probably uncomfortable for Tasha, so she couldn’t.  Instead, she pressed her legs outward, carefully not putting too much pressure on the door because she had learned the hard way not to break structural elements of rooms she was in.  But that self-restraint felt good, _too,_ so good, and all the aches that had spread throughout her body were gathering in, now, coiling around in her center, and she was so close, _so close—_

Gwen rocked backwards and forwards, _screaming_ as the orgasm exploded through her, trying to get Tasha as close to her as humanly possible to coax her through it, and Tasha obliged, stroking over her clit with her tongue even as her mouth kept a steady pressure on it as Gwen pulsed, and pulsed, and pulsed, hanging from the doorway in the delicious weightlessness of pleasure.

Eventually, it had to stop, of course.  

By the time Gwen’s cries were fading into silence, Tasha had pulled back, studying her as she stood there, spread open and clinging to the frame.  Thoughtfully, Tasha reached down and popped the snap at the top of her jeans, slipping one hand inside them and coming out with her fingers glistening.  

“Here,” she said.  Her mouth was glistening, too, wet with Gwen’s juices, puffy with friction and movement.  Gwen wanted to suck the wetness off of her, but before she could move, Tasha was holding slick fingers up to her face, and Gwen sucked the juices off of them, instead.  Tasha tasted different than Gwen herself did, Gwen noticed—tangier, more sour and less salty.  Gwen moaned and licked the two fingers clean, even forcing her tongue between them to catch the last drops of Tasha’s flavor off them.

Tasha sighed.  “Yeah,” she said, “yeah.  That is... wow. _Look_ at you.”  

Gwen opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and looked up through her lashes as much as she could, considering the height difference.  Tasha sighed again, her face softening.  

“Yeah,” she repeated.  “That is... amazing.  Thank you for that.”  

Gwen opened her mouth to tell Tasha it was _her_ turn now, that she wanted to get her mouth on that delicious cunt of hers, and she moved her hand to reach for Tasha—

She did _not_ move her hand.  

Her hand... wouldn’t move.

Gwen blinked.  “What...?”  

She looked up at her wrist.

She was, she realized, still wearing the thick, bejeweled bonds that Tasha had coaxed her into before that stupid party.  They clung like magnets to the thick metal frame of the door—or maybe not like magnets; quite possibly they were something more powerful.  Gwen frowned, sex-stupid and slow, trying to figure out what was wrong with them.

Tasha stepped back.  “Thank you,” she repeated.  As Gwen watched, a trace of real regret passed across her face before being covered by the familiar hard shell.  “I have work to do now,” Tasha continued.  “I’d love to trust that your offer is real... but I can’t.  I’m sure you understand.”

The door to the cell hissed pneumatically as it started to close.  

“You’ll be thrown off the frame when it seals,” Tasha called around it.  “I suggest you make yourself comfortable; you’re going to be in there for a long, long time.”

The last thing Gwen heard as the door punched into place was the click, click, click of Tasha’s pointy heels moving away down the corridor.

  
  



	3. HAPPY ENDING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the HAPPY ENDING (no pun intended). If you want the DARK ENDING, go back to chapter 2!

Tasha surged back against Gwen, running a hand down her back, curving it around her rear and pulling in until Gwen groaned into her mouth.  “Yes,” Gwen bit out.  She nuzzled her way up Tasha’s neck to her ear, running the tip of her tongue around the shell and making Tasha shudder.

“Oh, is that good?” Gwen asked.  A grin spread over her face as she deliberately took Tasha’s earlobe between her teeth, biting oh-so-delicately.

“Holy _fuck,”_ Tasha breathed.  She braced one spiky heel against the wall and pushed, shoving hard to spin the two of them around, clinging to Gwen’s hips with her knees as they both went down to the floor.

They rolled when they landed, Tasha ending up on top, straddling one of Gwen’s powerful thighs.  She shot Gwen a _look,_ brown eyes full of mischief and hunger, and dropped to her elbows, slithering her whole body along Gwen’s so that Gwen gasped and gasped.  “Yes,” Gwen said again, wrapping her arms around Tasha and pulling her in closer, closer, _impossibly_ close, so that the whole length of Tasha’s chest pressed deliciously against hers—

Except, no; what _was_ that?

Gwen frowned, pulling back.  “Tasha...?”

Tasha shook out of her grip, pulling back enough to get her hand on Gwen’s chest, finding a nipple and thumbing it into a small, dense point through her clothes.  It felt like warm honey being poured over her breast, her nerves lighting up and singing at the unaccustomed sensation, and that was before Tasha took the nipple between her fingers and pinched gently.  “Medical device,” she said breezily as Gwen moaned and arched.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” Gwen panted, twisting beneath Tasha.  “Oh—do that again!”

Tasha laughed, low and sultry, leaning in again to reclaim Gwen’s mouth.  She kissed like a foregone conclusion, powerful and sweeping, then pulling back and nibbling, tasting, _teasing_ until Gwen was struggling to deepen it.  Whenever Gwen pushed, though, Tasha just pulled back, arching an eyebrow and waiting for Gwen to dial it back again, tantalizingly close but too far for Gwen to just take over.

And, meanwhile, her _hands...!_ Her hands were wandering all over, touching and testing and then moving onward again, drifting over Gwen’s too-tight dress and bare legs as lightly as a silk nightgown.  Gwen craved; she wanted _more,_ wanted the touches to be harder, fiercer... and just as she was getting ready to demand it, Tasha’s eyes flared and she _gave it to her._

The knee fallen between Gwen’s legs jerked upward, seating itself against Gwen’s flimsy underwear.  Tasha reached inside Gwen’s clothes and pulled her breasts out of both bra and dress, although the neckline still pushed them together, then raised her hands to Gwen’s shoulders and pushed, holding her down, just as she dropped her mouth to Gwen’s nipple and _sucked._

Gwen _thrashed_ at the touch, bucking hard, but Tasha had her shoulders pinned well, and Gwen’s self-restraint, practiced so often that it was automatic, kept her from throwing her off, thank goodness.  Tasha’s mouth was like heaven and hell on her breast, licking and nipping roughly, a feeling so good it was agony, too intense but _perfect._ Gwen bucked again, but that just drove her snatch harder against Tasha’s knee, sliding them together and _oh,_ but that felt _amazing!_ Gwen groaned and did it again, grinding down against Tasha’s leg, and Tasha gave a bitten-off whimper in response. 

“God, _Tasha!_ That’s perfect, just like that!” 

Gwen twisted her hips over and over again, pressing into Tasha’s knee, even as Tasha blew cool air over her aching nipple and moved to the other breast.  Tasha’s hands were hard against her shoulders, holding her down just right, and then Tasha’s teeth closed over her tit and Gwen threw her head back, knocking it against the floor.  “Good!  Yes!”  She grabbed Tasha’s head by the hair, pulling and holding her in place, and ground herself down against Tasha’s thigh, loving the pressure of it, the feralness of rutting. 

Tasha rolled her nipple between her teeth once more, and then released it.  “C’mon,” she muttered, tugging against Gwen’s grip, trying to move her mouth upward.  Gwen let her, and she placed savage bites along Gwen’s chest as they rocked together.  “Come on, come for me—come against me, _do it—”_  Her teeth were getting closer and closer to Gwen’s throat even as Gwen was getting closer to orgasm, and Gwen thrust and thrust again, trying to get there faster.  It came down to the inevitable, though: Tasha’s teeth grazed the column of Gwen’s throat before sinking in on the long, diamond-shaped muscle there, and Gwen climaxed immediately, wild beneath the pressure of Tasha’s hands and body and bite.

They both went still, afterwards, Gwen because every muscle in her body had simultaneously gone on holiday, and Tasha because...  Gwen wasn’t sure why, actually.  In just a minute, Gwen was going to muster the strength to look at her instead of blinking stupidly at the ceiling.  In just... a minute...

Gwen sighed happily and turned her head.

Tasha was staring at her, watching her, wide-eyed.  The look was familiar, but it took Gwen a moment to place from where: it was the same look Tasha had worn when she realized she had underestimated Gwen, like Gwen was some kind of beautiful mystery of unexpected complexity.

Gwen snorted and flipped them.

She pushed Tasha to her feet mainly with force of strength, putting Tasha’s back to the wall and holding her there with a hand against Tasha’s strong, flat stomach.  With her other hand, she went for the pants—Tasha’s pants had a snap and a zipper instead of buttons, _very_ convenient—tearing them down Tasha’s legs one side at a time.  They got caught at the hips and tangled with Tasha’s underwear, and then got caught again at the tops of her thighs.  “Why—the hell—are your pants—so— _tight?”_ Gwen snapped, before going still as she saw Tasha take over, pushing pants and underwear down and stepping out of them. 

She was an impressive sight; her legs were long and tanned, lean muscles showing clearly under smooth, even skin.  Her hips were trim and flat, her butt round, again mostly from muscle. 

Her hair was neatly trimmed with only a single strip leading down towards dark, almost mauve-colored folds, and Gwen gasped at the sight of it.  She hadn’t known until this second that people did that—trimming their nether hair—but she found herself liking it a lot more than she probably should.  There was something perverse about it, something premeditatedly carnal.

And, also, the single stripe of hair looked like nothing so much as an unsubtle hint: _touch here._

So Gwen did.  She moved in so fast she almost tripped over the discarded pants, desperately diving in, messy and reckless.  Too fast and too hard, probably, but then again Tasha was moaning and sinking her hands into Gwen’s hair, pulling her in and looking down with wide, shocked eyes, so maybe Gwen was doing okay.

Tasha was already wet by the time Gwen managed to get her mouth on her, her folds glistening with her own juices, smelling salty and musty, tasting delicious.  Tangier than Gwen’s own slick.  Her labia were dusky colored and slim, the inner lips showing between them in a line, a single drop of clear liquid threatening to fall from them.  Gwen caught it with her tongue, licking up along the delicate inner skin to Tasha’s clit.

Tasha’s clit was a hard, round nub, smaller than Gwen’s—Gwen’s clit was, like the rest of her, unusually large—and very pink.  Gwen used the flat of her tongue on it, impetuous and firm, and Tasha yelled and pulled her hair appreciatively, harder and harder as Gwen worked her faster.

It didn’t take long; Gwen was just starting to think that maybe she should get a hand involved instead of using them both to hold Tasha in place when Tasha bucked against her mouth, screaming at the ceiling and thrashing.  A gush of clear, sea-tasting fluid came out of her, soaking Gwen’s throat, her dress, and her still-exposed breasts.

Tasha’s knees buckled and she sagged against Gwen’s hold.  Slowly, Gwen lowered her down to the floor, wrapping her in her arms and rolling them, pinning Tasha to the wall with a knee flung over her just in time: it took Tasha a minute to regain her sensibility after her climax, but once she did, she tensed into rigidness, lying stiffly in Gwen’s grasp.

There was a smile on Gwen’s face, smug and jubilant.  Tasha met her eyes and then ducked her gaze away.  If Gwen didn’t know better, she would think Tasha was blushing. 

Tasha coughed.  “Wow,” she said, her voice scratchy.  “That was... wow.  I didn’t expect you—”

She froze, her gaze darting back up to Gwen nervously.  Gwen beamed and kissed her in response, gently.  No pressure; it wasn’t the time for that.

The kiss lingered and drew out, becoming an exchange of teases, each one chasing the other’s mouth when they went to withdraw, coaxing them in again, on and on.  Gwen felt the tension slowly leaving Tasha’s body, felt her relaxing into one of the first genuinely nice moments she had had in... a while, Gwen was guessing; impossible to know for sure how long.

When the kiss finally broke, they remained silent for a long, easy minute.  Eventually, though, Tasha stirred.  “Did you mean it?” she asked.  Her voice sounded like didn’t particularly care what Gwen’s answer was, but her back, Gwen noticed, was tense as a board beneath Gwen’s hand.

“Did I mean which?” Gwen asked.  “My actions, or my words?”

“Either,” Tasha shrugged tensely.  “Both.”

Gwen kissed her again, then looked into her eyes patiently.  “Yes,” she said pointedly.

Tasha _did_ blush this time, ducking her gaze away as a sunlit smile bloomed over her face.  It made her look softer, kinder.  Like a walled garden when the sun comes in.  “Okay,” Tasha said softly.  She took Gwen’s hand, squeezing their fingers together.  “Okay.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Cluegirl and Buhfly for beta work, without whom this fic would be substantially worse, and to Mouse, Subversivecynic, and Jo for hand-holding. 
> 
> ETA: Now that reveals have happened, I can also mention that I got the idea for the "choose your own ending" from a_sparrows_fall's Regis/Geralt fic, [All That's Mine I Carry With Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247)!


End file.
